


Stimmed

by anr



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-03
Updated: 2005-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She blames it on the drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stimmed

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: _33_  
>  BETAS: bantha_fodder and rheanna27

Kara swings first, that much she knows for sure.

  


* * *

  


Things are a little disjointed after the destruction of the Olympic Carrier. Fragmented. Not entirely contextual.

She blames it on the drugs.

  


* * *

  


Either she's getting sloppier (doubtful) or he's getting quicker (possible). Her fist barely clips the curve of his ear as he leans back and to the left, his arm rising to deflect the blow further. She stumbles, hates herself for it, and elbows him in the heart.

That last part's mostly an accident.

  


* * *

  


Two hours and fifty-three minutes into their CAP. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. She thinks it'd go quicker if she lost count.

"Starbuck, what the _frak_ do you think you're doing?!"

Almost too late she realises that the Cylon she's sighting is, in fact, Boomer and Crashdown and she's a split-second away from blasting their Raptor (it was a Raider, she could have _sworn_ it was a Raider) into smithereens. She breaks her run with a manoeuvre that's more death spin than anything else and feels her Viper shudder from the strain.

"Kara!" Lee's voice now, ricocheting in her cockpit. They haven't spoken since the rain stopped and she's not so sure she wants them to start now. "What--"

"Sorry," she mutters, mostly meaning it. Her skull feels like it's about to implode and there's a low buzz there that just won't go away. "Thought I saw something."

Boomer again, tired and bitchy. "You're frakking _insane_." In the background she can hear Crashdown mouthing off a few descriptions of his own.

"Yeah." She pops her jaw and shakes her head. Checks her chronometer. "I know."

Absently, she wonders if her eyes will ever shut again.

  


* * *

  


The elbow accomplishes what her fist couldn't (knocks him on his ass) and normally that'd suit her just fine except his arms have somehow managed to slide around her waist which means when he drops, so does she.

  


* * *

  


She does a barrel roll to clear her head as soon as Dee confirms her approach, narrowly missing the landing bay doors, and lets Lee's swearing serenade her home.

In hindsight: probably not her smartest move.

  


* * *

  


They land well, at first, with his back meeting the wall as he slides to the floor and her legs automatically straddling his as he pulls her down too.

Then her knees hit the grating, hard, and the resulting body-jerk slams her shoulder up under his chin.

"Frak," he swears, as his head bounces back against the bulkhead, her forehead nearly doing the same when she twists for leverage, for control. Struggling awkwardly until he tangles them further, his arms pinning hers to her sides.

  


* * *

  


Stumbling is not the same as falling which is why she'll go to her grave insisting that her ungraceful exit from the Viper is a result of crap stair maintenance and nothing else (like, say, a handful of pills and a desperate need for sleep). She gives Cally an evil eye when the specialist helps her up from the deck (kid sees too damn much sometimes) and then swaps the evil for rolling as Lee approaches.

"Stupid. Irresponsible. Childish." She lists the offences with him, just because she can, and sees Cally unsuccessfully try to hide a smirk.

"Debriefing." He's seething (a good look for Lee, actually). " _Now_."

"Right." She wasn't that tired anyway.

  


* * *

  


She can feel, even through the layers of flight gear they've yet to shed, his fists against her shoulder blades and finds it weird that _that_ is what stops her from sinking her teeth into his neck (she's never been adverse to fighting dirty).

"Are you done?" he asks. "Are you finished?"

They are pressed together from groin to chest, arms locked (hers under, his over) and her knees are killing her (not that she gives a frak about them). She thinks this is only the beginning.

"Yeah."

  


* * *

  


Tigh's wound tighter than usual and the debriefing goes on and on and on and _on_ \--

"Anything you'd care to add, Lieutenant?"

She has a laundry list and then some but she's about ninety-four hours beyond caring right now and not even the chance to twist the stick up Tigh's ass can change that. "No, Sir."

"Wonders never cease." She can still care enough to flip him off though, and does so. Happily. Then waits for Lee to report her for arguing a direct order, for hesitating when he marked the Olympic Carrier, and hates him just a little when he doesn't. Tigh says, "dismissed," and she watches him beat Boomer and Crashdown for the door.

Her head's buzzing again.

  


* * *

  


"You wanna tell me what that was just about?"

She does but she answers, "not really," because she's already read him the riot act once today and she's not so sure she has the energy for a round two (punches aside). She knows he's good, knows he can be the CAG and do it right, but she also knows that it's her mission in life to break the rules and push too far, too hard, and that he has to be stronger than that. Stronger than _her_. He's got to start pulling her back and holding her in before she breaks too far ahead and finds herself all alone. (She needs an anchor; needs it to be _him_.)

"Fine," he says, shifting a little beneath her. "Then remind me to beat it out of you later when we're done here."

"Deal." As she brushes her cheek along his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable resting place (and failing miserably: they probably should have stripped off their gear first), it occurs to her that the bulkhead two inches from her nose is unfamiliar; that the room's bereft of the noises she usually associates with rack time (bodies shifting in sleep, Zero's mumbling, Flat-Top's snoring). "Uh, Lee?"

"What?"

Definitely not quarters... a storage locker, maybe? She wonders which one.

"Where are we?"

He sighs. "I really don't care."

And strangely enough, neither does she.

  


* * *

  


Lee's following her (or maybe she's following him) and she has absolutely no idea where they're going because her brain is too busy reducing the world into snapshots.

Corridor. Hatch. Room.

She listens to him seal the door and turn her way and wonders (for about half a second) if he's still pissed at her (like she is with him) before deciding (a half second later) that that's irrelevant--

  


* * *

  


Lee smells like flying. Like sweat and fuel and something she can't quite define but knows like the back of her hand anyway and everything's going black which means either the world is finally (really) ending or her eyes have simply closed and she's honestly not sure which option she'd prefer because even though her head's still buzzing and staying like this (sitting on him, on the floor) is so gonna frak their backs she can't quite bring herself to care now that his hands are palm-flat on her spine (when did that happen?) and his jacket isn't cutting into her cheek quite so bad anymore and...

"Sleep," he orders.

Six hours and twelve minutes until her next CAP. Six thirty-six if she doesn't bother showering first.

She sleeps.

  


* * *

  


\--and swings.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/190007.html>


End file.
